


Be Our Guest

by Rose_of_Pollux



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, Early Days, Gen, Napoleon's parents - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: During their first December together as partners, Napoleon brings Illya home to his parents’ house for Christmas Eve.  And Illya finds himself lovingly conscripted into the Solo family.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an early-days piece, taking place shortly after my “Boudetase Affair” collection; Napoleon and Illya have only known each other for just under a year, so if Illya seems a bit awkward, it’s because he certainly feels awkward.

Illya watched his partner with interest as Napoleon drove them through streets that were old and familiar paths to him; there was a nostalgic look in his eyes as he glanced around—the decorations, the last-minute shoppers, the kids pelting each other with snowballs… These were familiar, welcoming sights to him.

A few minutes later, they had pulled into the driveway of an old, brick house; a string of lights decorated the outside, and, through the hazy curtains, a Christmas tree was visible in what Illya assumed was the sitting room.

The Russian’s nervousness about being a guest in the Solo household was beginning to return as he got out of the car, still holding onto the platter with the cake that Napoleon had made for his mother; Napoleon got the suitcases out of the trunk of the car and gave him a reassuring smile.

“Come on in,” he said, gently.

“Shouldn’t we knock?” Illya asked.

“I’ve still got a key,” Napoleon informed him, and he unlocked the door. Illya caught sight of the decorated hall and the smell of cookies when, all of a sudden, three corgis bounded into the hall, heading right for them.

Illya paled and backed away as Napoleon put the suitcases down and kneeled in front of the three dogs, chuckling as he greeted each one.

“Hey, you guys,” he said, grinning as they stood with their paws on his chest to greet him back. “You missed me? Huh?”

“Your parents keep dogs?” Illya asked.

“Ma does; she loves them. We’ve had dogs for as long as I can remember…” Napoleon trailed off as he noticed Illya keeping his distance. “You don’t like dogs?”

“I have always been more partial to cats,” Illya said.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon said. “I should have told you.” He winced. “Well, it’s okay; they have their own room to hang out in. Okay, Lucas, Lily, and Lucy—you three get going to the playroom; I’ll see you in a little bit.”

He whistled at the dogs, and the three corgis bounded out of the hall just as quickly as they had bounded in. Napoleon got back to his feet and looked at Illya apologetically.

“I’m really sorry, _Tovarisch_ ; I don’t know why I didn’t ask…”

“Well, I haven’t advertised my feelings towards dogs, either,” Illya reminded him. “But as my transfer as your partner is permanent now, I will be more open about these things.” He smiled. “But now I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“How is it that the dogs have perfectly typical English names, and yet you ended up being named Napoleon?”

“Because _I_ named the dogs,” a woman said, now entering the hall. She was short, and her facial features and black hair identified her as Napoleon’s mother, without a shadow of a doubt. “My husband was the one who had the bright idea to name our only child after a short, French emperor while I was still out of it!”

Napoleon’s grin widened and he accepted the hug she offered.

“How are you, Ma?” he asked.

“Fine, Napoleon; just fine,” she said. She turned to the Russian, who went bright red. “And this must be Illya?”

“That’s him, alright,” Napoleon agreed. He gave his partner an encouraging nod as he hesitated when Mrs. Solo offered him a hug as well.

Illya placed the cake platter on a nearby endtable and accepted the hug, and a part of his mind flashed back to his younger years—the last hug he had received from his own mother in 1941 when the Germans had surrounded Kiev, just before she had instructed him to run for his life…

His shoulders shook slightly, prompting Mrs. Solo to look at him in concern.

“I am fine,” Illya insisted, seeing the silent query in her eyes. “And I thank you and your husband for your hospitality.”

Mrs. Solo smiled at him

“Napoleon has told us so much about you; trust me when I say that we’re happy to have you here. And that reminds me…” She turned her head to the direction of the kitchen. “Leopold! Forget that eggnog and get over here; we have company!”

A moment later, a taller man with the same brown eyes as Napoleon entered the room with a carton of eggs.

“I know I can get it right this year, Cora…”

Mrs. Solo cleared her throat, prompting Mr. Solo to abandon the conversation; he greeted his son first with a warm handshake and a clap on the shoulder before greeting Illya the same way. He had a jovial personality—something else that Napoleon had clearly inherited from him--and did succeed in putting the Russian slightly more at ease.

“Glad to have you here, Illya,” Mr. Solo said. “Feels like I know you already from all of Napoleon’s stories.”

Illya’s blush deepened.

“I have a feeling he may have exaggerated.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, _Tovarisch_ ,” Napoleon said, drawing an arm around him. “I’ve had a lot to tell.”

Illya blushed even more deeply, and Mrs. Solo sought to end his embarrassment.

“Napoleon, why don’t you show Illya around upstairs?” she asked. “You two can freshen up and then have some cookies I just made, and then we can make a start on dinner.”

“I hope to have the eggnog figured out by then,” Mr. Solo added.

Mrs. Solo made a face behind his back, crinkling her nose in the same way Napoleon did when he was disgusted with something; clearly, she did not think too much of eggnog—or her husband’s attempts at it, at least.

Napoleon held back a snark and looked back at Illya.

“Sounds like a plan—we can have some of that lemon zest cake I made, too. Follow me, Illya!”

Illya nodded, and, after thanking Mr. and Mrs. Solo again for their hospitality, followed Napoleon up the stairs.

Napoleon took him on a small tour, and they ended up in Napoleon’s old room; the walls were covered with posters of cities and landscapes from all over the world—the one exception was a large poster from the movie _Casablanca_ over the head of his bed. He gave it a fond glance.

“That was my favorite movie as a kid,” he mused. “I practically begged Dad to take me to it three or four times. I used to do a pretty good impression of Rick Blaine—that was always popular at school.”

“I have no doubt you were,” Illya said, sincerely. He was more interested with the posters from around the world. “Let me guess… Was geography was your best subject?”

Napoleon chuckled.

“Well, I guess that’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?” he said. “Ma keeps saying that ever since I learned just how big the world was, I was obsessed with wanting to see it all. …And then as I grew up and realized that the world wasn’t exactly perfect, I realized I wanted to help fix that, too.”

“And so, you joined U.N.C.L.E.?”

“And so, I joined U.N.C.L.E.,” Napoleon agreed, giving the old globe on his desk a spin. “Best decision I ever made.”

Illya smiled at him and then crossed to the window, looking out at the large maple tree outside the window; without its leaves, the view was mostly unobscured, and Illya could see all of the holiday lights on the nearby houses.

“With this tree so close to the window, it would make for a convenient way to leave the room,” he said.

“…Yeah, I tried that once. Let me tell you, Illya, when you’re a kid sneaking back in to your room past midnight, the most frightening thing in the world is your mother standing in the room, turning on the lights.”

Illya laughed aloud.

“Oh, sure, it sounds funny now—you weren’t the one grounded for two weeks!” Napoleon chided. He stood beside his partner now, looking out at the familiar view. He sighed. “That path there goes to a small woodsy area. There’s an old well there that hundreds of years old; we called it the Witch’s Well. The stories say that the old well used to belong to a witch, and her ghost haunts the bottom of the well.”

“Hmm. Sounds reminiscent of the tales that were told to me as a child.”

“…Yeah, I guess we all grow up with something like that, don’t we?” Napoleon asked. He hesitated. “You know, I’ve never really asked you about your childhood. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk about it.”

“We were poor but we were happy—until the war came to Kiev.”

“…Do you want to talk about it?”

“Some other time, perhaps. For now, I wish to focus on the kindness that you and your parents are offering me.”

“Fair enough,” Napoleon said. “But know that I want you to consider this house as your home, too.”

Illya looked back at him and smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely. “You have always shown me such kindness. And now you share your home and family with me.”

“And I’m happy to be able to,” Napoleon replied. He gently touched his partner on the arm. “Come on; let’s get back downstairs. Preparing Christmas Eve dinner here is always a sight to behold.”

*************************************

Illya should have guessed that with Napoleon being as good a cook as he was, his parents would have been equally blessed in their culinary talents—save for the eggnog, which Mr. Solo decided to abandon after all.

They insisted that Illya take it easy, as he was their guest, so the Russian was standing aimlessly in the middle of the Solos’ kitchen nibbling on cookies and cake, watching them carry dish after dish laden with food that made his stomach growl with hunger—roasted yellow sweet corn, potatoes au gratin, garlic bread, and a roasted turkey. An apple pie now sat in the oven, promising to be dessert.

“Plenty enough here, even for you,” Napoleon teased, sitting on a barstool by the kitchen counter.

Illya went slightly red.

“Leopold!” Mrs. Solo suddenly called to her husband, who was moving to retrieve the china from the cabinet. “Not that old stuff, Leopold; Illya is our guest! Where’s the good china?”

Illya’s blush deepened.

“You needn’t bother--” he began, but Mrs. Solo shushed him.

“Leopold?” she asked again.

“I think the good china is in the cellar,” Mr. Solo said, with a shrug. “Well, we hardly use it…”

“The regular china will be more than sufficient,” Illya insisted.

“It’s not sufficient enough for me,” she insisted.

“Don’t worry, Cora; I’ll go look for it,” Mr. Solo said. “I think we have some vintage wine down there, too; I’ll bring a bottle up.”

“Oh, that’ll be perfect!” Mrs. Solo exclaimed. “Napoleon, go help your father find the china and the wine.”

“Aw, Ma--!”

“ _Napoleon_ ,” she said, sternly, and Illya saw his partner bolt from his barstool for the cellar like a THRUSHie was after him, dashing past his father, who shrugged and followed him into the cellar.

“Oh, those two…” Mrs. Solo sighed and shook her head. “It’s a miracle anything can be found in this house. Napoleon is even worse than his father; his room was a disaster zone when he was a child. I hope he’s better at keeping things in order now.”

“ _Da_ , he is…” Illya said. He suddenly winced at slipping into his native tongue. “Ah… I am not sure how much Napoleon has told you about me--”

“Oh, Illya, he can’t stop talking about you,” Mrs. Solo said, fondly.

“Then, you know…?”

“…About what?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Well…” Illya said. “He has told you that I… I was of the Soviet Navy? That I still have my Soviet citizenship?”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Well, of course we know. …In fact, I wasn’t at all surprised when Napoleon brought it up.”

“…You’re not…?”

“Well, if you’d known him when he was a child, you would understand…” she began. She snapped her fingers and darted from the kitchen for a moment; when she returned, she was carrying an old photo album. She handed it to Illya, opened to one of the old pages. One of the pictures on the page was of two boys throwing snowballs at each other—one was clearly a young Napoleon. A paper caption beneath the photograph read “Napoleon and Takeshi, January, 1942.”

“Takeshi…” Illya repeated.

“Yes. They lived down the street from us; Napoleon and Takeshi went to the same school,” Mrs. Solo said.

“Wait a moment…” Illya said, the significance of the date sinking in at last. “January of ’42? That would have been…”

“…Just over a month after Pearl Harbor,” Mrs. Solo finished. “Even at that young age, Napoleon knew to separate the actions of a few horrible people from those who were innocent. The other children started treating Takeshi differently after it happened—it seemed to be getting worse by the day. And it wasn’t just the children, I’m sorry to say; even the faculty were… noticeably cold towards him.” She shuddered. “He was a child. And my son—a child himself—could see the injustice in it. I still remember him storming home one afternoon and just ranting about it. ‘Takeshi isn’t one of the bad guys!’ And I told him that it was good that he knew that—because the real bad guys wanted to turn people against each other, and make them fight each other. …And I think that was the day Napoleon decided that he wanted to one day stop the bad guys and protect the innocents.”

“He’s been doing a marvelous job of it,” Illya said. “You have raised him well.”

“While I thank you for that, I can’t take credit for it. Napoleon has always had a good heart, without any added help from me.”

“But you allowed his heart to grow further,” Illya insisted. “I only wish I’d had someone…” He trailed off. The same war that had opened Napoleon’s eyes to the injustices of the world and allowed him to find his calling had been the same war that had taken Illya’s family from him, casting him to a cynical, solitary existence that only truly ended when he had allowed Napoleon to coax him—a Soviet that Napoleon’s more short-sighted countrymen would have encouraged him not to associate with—out of his shell. It was the war that had shaped both of them, and had ultimately set them both on paths towards each other.

“Illya?” Mrs. Solo asked, softly, jarring him from his thoughts.

“It’s nothing,” Illya said. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t convinced, but any further discussion was halted by Napoleon and his father returning from the cellar with the good china and a bottle of wine.

Illya helped him, taking some of the plates that his partner was carrying.

“Hey, thanks,” he said, with a grin.

“Actually, Napoleon…” Illya said, quietly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Illya couldn’t put it into words; he merely shook his head.

“Just… thank you.”

Napoleon was puzzled for a moment, but the answer came to him as he saw the photo album turned to the picture of Takeshi and his younger self.

“Thank you, too, Illya,” he said, softly.

He carried his share of the plates into the dining room, eager for a good meal with his family—a family that, as far as he was concerned, Illya was now a part of.

**********************************

Mr. and Mrs. Solo were more than a bit surprised to see how much Illya could eat, but were definitely pleased that he thought enough of their cooking to eat a lot of it—and still have room for pie.

Illya also soon warmed up to the corgis, and was at ease as they sat by the table and begged, and even he couldn’t help but slip them some tidbits—and then smirk as Napoleon caught his eye and they realized that they were both doing the same thing.

And, of course, the four of them talked; Napoleon and Illya were limited with what they could discuss from their work as they couldn’t discuss the missions’ specifics, but they were able to reveal that they had recently both received promotions.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Mrs. Solo exclaimed.

“Can’t say that we expected anything less,” Mr. Solo added. “See, Cora, naming our boy after an emperor was a good idea!”

“Just remember that Illya got that same promotion without an outlandish name,” she reminded him. 

“You’d be surprised how people have more trouble with his name than mine,” Napoleon mused.

“Well, that’s their fault for not even trying; I think he has a very lovely name!” Mrs. Solo insisted.

“Thank you for saying so,” Illya said, going slightly red again. “It was my mother who named me Illya—her name was Nika; my father, Vanya, wanted to name me Nikovetch after her. And so, I was named Illya Nikovetch.”

Napoleon paused, surprised that Illya had decided to open up about his family after all. Illya met his gaze and gave him a nod.

Mrs. Solo was also choosing to tread cautiously.

“I am sure that you have made them both very proud,” she said. “I know that I would be if you were my son.”

Illya looked down with a shy smile and mumbled a thanks, and Napoleon quickly changed the subject to something else. The rest of the dinner passed with good spirits and conversation, and soon, the four of them were in front of the fireplace, still chatting as they drank the vintage wine; Napoleon and Illya were sitting on the floor while Napoleon’s parents sat in the two armchairs.

“So, Boys,” Mr. Solo asked. “These new promotions of yours… Does that mean you’ll be doing all the delegating and spend less time out in the field?”

“We’re in charge of the field agents, but we still have to go out in the field,” Napoleon said. He paused, realizing the underlying sentiment in his father’s words. “Dad, I’ll be careful. I always am.”

“I know you’re careful, but we are allowed to worry,” Mrs. Solo said. “And I know you’re happier when you’re out in the field, but… We just want to see you come back safe and sound.”

“If I may quell your fears,” Illya said. “Napoleon is a highly skilled agent who can get himself out of any trouble with amazing ease. And I give you both my personal assurance—my vow—that I will do whatever it takes to ensure that your son returns to you. And there is no price that I would not pay to ensure it.”

All three Solos looked at him with an unreadable expression, prompting Illya to go slightly red again.

“I mean what I say.”

“And we don’t doubt you,” Mr. Solo said.

“While we appreciate your sentiments, we want the both of you to come back here safe and sound,” Mrs. Solo said, gently.

“Meaning you’re one of us now, Blockhead,” Napoleon added, tossing a throw pillow at him.

“ _Napoleon_!” Mrs. Solo chided.

“For us, it’s a term of endearment, Ma!” he added, hastily, and then yelped as Illya tossed the pillow right back at him.

Mrs. Solo rolled her eyes, and then gave her husband a look as he suppressed an amused chuckle.

Mr. Solo quickly got the message and got to his feet.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but us old folks are hitting the sack early. Amy’s coming tomorrow for lunch; she decided to squeeze us in her schedule after all.”

“Amy?” Illya asked.

“My aunt,” Napoleon reminded him.

“Ah, that’s right.”

“She’s the one responsible for all of those posters in Napoleon’s room,” Mrs. Solo sighed, also getting up. “She’s always loved to travel, and it rubbed off on him with all of the stories she had. She’s going to love meeting you, Illya.”

“Well, hopefully, I will have some interesting stories to tell her,” Illya said, managing a smile.

“I’m sure you will,” Mrs. Solo said. “There’s a tiny bit of the wine left, if you boys are interested.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Napoleon said. “Night, Ma. Dad.”

Illya also wished them goodnight as they headed upstairs; he sighed and glanced at the empty armchairs, contemplating getting up to sit on one of them, but then deciding he was too stuffed to the gills to move. Napoleon seemed to have the same idea; he merely turned and gave his partner a look.

“What was that about?”

“What was what about?” Illya asked.

“Your grand declaration a moment ago. You’re normally not the kind to toss around that kind of bravado,” Napoleon finished.

“Surely you knew I felt that way—that I would do anything to ensure your safety.”

“Yes, I know,” Napoleon said, and he paused to make sure that his parents were out of earshot before adding, “And I’d do the same for you. But we don’t go advertising it.”

“I know,” Illya said. “I guess I wanted to let them know that they could depend on me to look after you. Impress them, I suppose. Reassure them that their trust is not misplaced.”

Napoleon smiled.

“Believe me, Illya, the fact that I brought you here to have Christmas dinner is impressive and reassuring enough. None of my other temporary partners ever got the invite… Well, most of the partnerships were dissolved before Christmas anyway, but the one who was assigned as my partner last Christmas didn’t get invited.”

“…What makes me different? I am not an easy person to like, Napoleon; in fact, I have somewhat reveled in that reputation, as I always preferred working alone.”

“…Well,” Napoleon said, shrugging. “You were asking me after Monte Carlo over the summer why I seemed to be so insistent on having you as a partner when all my previous partners didn’t make the cut. And I didn’t have an answer then. But you seem to be asking the same question now.”

“And you have an answer now?” Illya asked, through a yawn.

Napoleon yawned, as well.

“Yeah, I think I do,” he said. “I just had a feeling that this time, it was going to be different.”

“So, it was as simple as that?”

“Well, you stayed,” Napoleon reminded him. “Why did you?”

Illya shrugged now.

“My reason is just as simple,” he said. “I _wanted_ it to be different.”

Napoleon smiled. This would probably be the closest Illya would ever come to admitting that he’d had hope about their partnership.

“And it _was_ different,” he said. “And here you are, ten months later, part of the family now.”

“I am glad to be…” Illya began, but he trailed off.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked. He glanced over at him and smiled again to see the Russian falling asleep on the floor with his head on a throw pillow. Napoleon now tried to get up, but he was too full of food and wine, and so he abandoned the effort halfway and fell back on another throw pillow. “Goodnight.”

*********************************

It was the morning sun that awoke Napoleon the next day; he was momentarily confused to find that he and Illya were still in front of the fire, now wrapped up in blankets, but he quickly realized that his mother must have given them the blankets after getting a glass of water during the night.

He gently shook Illya awake and, soon, they were changed and ready for breakfast; Mrs. Solo had made chocolate chip pancakes by the time they had come back downstairs.

They exchanged presents after breakfast; as he had been on the occasion of Napoleon’s birthday last month, Illya had been shy and unsure of what presents to give, and had settled on a genuine Matryoshka doll for Mrs. Solo, a bottle of vodka for Mr. Solo, and an assortment of fine Russian cakes and pastries for Napoleon, and was more than relieved when they all enjoyed their gifts. He, in turn, received a hand-knitted sweater from Mrs. Solo (“Napoleon told me you liked wearing turtlenecks…”), a monogrammed wallet from Mr. Solo, and, from Napoleon, a sterling silver lapel pin with the Solo family crest.

Napoleon had also received a matching hand-knitted sweater from his mother and a robe and slippers set from his father; he, in turn, had given a shawl embroidered with gold thread to his mother, and a new woodworking set for his father, having heard of this being his latest hobby (“Just don’t mix it with the vodka…”).

Napoleon watched as his father presented squeaky toys and treats to the dogs; Illya was helping him now, definitely not afraid of them anymore. His mother now stood beside him, wearing her new shawl as she watched Illya and Mr. Solo with the dogs.

“So, Napoleon,” she said. “Did you get what you wanted this Christmas?”

“…You haven’t asked me that since I was a kid, Ma,” Napoleon mused.

“Well, I’m asking now,” she said. “Did you?”

Napoleon looked out at his partner again, who was grinning as he fed a treat to one of the dogs. The lapel pin with the Solo family crest glittered on his new sweater, where he had pinned it.

“Yeah,” Napoleon said, smiling now. “I did.”

It would be the first of many joy-filled Christmases to come, spent with family—family by blood and family by choice. And Napoleon wouldn’t want it any other way.


End file.
